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THE LINCOLN BOOK OF POEMS 



THE LINCOLN BOOK 
OF POEMS 

WILLIAM L. STIDGER 




BOSTON 

RICHARD G. BADGER 

THE OORHAM PRESS 
I9II 



Copyright igii by William L. Stidg«t 



All Rights Reserved 



THE GORHAM PRESS BOSTON, U. S. 

©CI.A3033'»8 



CONTENTS 

Pages 

Lincoln's Heart an Aeolian Harp 7 

Happy When Others Were Happy, Sorry 

When Others Were Sad 8 

Just be Kind 9 

Where There Grew a Thistle 9 

Acquainted With Grief 1 1 

The Humble Walk of Life 13 

That Wondrous Name 14 

"With Him I Cannot Fail" 15 

The Pure Thread 16 

That Sacred Hour 17 

Flow Gently Now, Sweet Sangamon 18 

The Sangamon's Glory 19 

At the Grave of Anne Rutledge 21 

"I Cannot Forget" 23 

Beside White Cots 24 

Lincoln's Gethsemane 25 

The Face of Lincoln 26 

"Father Abraham" They Called Him 27 

The Path he Trod— The Path of the Hill. . . 28 

His Entrance to Ford's Theatre 29 

The Storm and the Calm 30 

"Now He Belongs to the Ages" 31 



LINCOLN'S HEART AN AEOLIAN HARP 

Open to the gentle touch of every tiny breeze 
That drifts along the river o'er the fields and trees; 
Atune to every breath of wind that wavers on the 

hill, 
A breath of harmony and song, that breaths above 

the rill. 
Aeolian Harp of highly tempered, vibrant strings; 
Aeolian Harp that whispers, crys, and laughs, and 

sings 
Athrough the sunny day, and through the wind 

tossed night; 
An answering chord of sympathy to every breath — 

or dark or light! 

Open, his heart to every gentle touch of every tiny 

pain 
That came into the childish heart when baby hopes 

were slain; 
Atune to every cruel hurt that moaned athrough the 

land, 
A soothing touch beside white cots, of rough yet 

gentle hand; 
Aeolian Harp of highly tempered, vibrant strings 
Responding quick to all the pain of bitter things 
That came to weary hearts; with joy responding to 

the breeze 
Of joy that played in laughter in and out among the 

happy leaves. 
And then in turn wept bitter tears with every 

Mother's pain, 
Because of brother, father, son, in cruel battle slain. 
Ah, Harp atune to every wind that blows along 

the hill; 
Ah, Heart that vibrates to the pulse of every hu- 
man ill! 



HAPPY WHEN OTHERS WERE HAPPY 
SORRY WHEN OTHERS WERE SAD 

"Nothing would make me more miserable than 
to believe you miserable, nothing more happy than 
to know you were so." Lincoln, in a letter writ- 
ten to Miss Mary Owens, August i6th, 1837. 
Springfield, 111. 

Happy when others were happy, 
Sorry when others were sad; 
Such was the love of his great true heart. 
Such was the soul that he had! 

Smiled with the boy at his playtime, 
Laughed with his brave soldier men; 
Stories of fun and of frolic 
Rang through the camping place, when 
Lincoln with tender heart journeyed that way. 
Loud rang the mirth and the laughter. 
Droll was the wit and the story that day. 

Happy when others were happy. 
Sorry when others were sad; 
Such was the love of his great true heart, 
Such was the soul that he had! 

Boy on the night watch is sleeping, 
Homesick, and weary worn lad; 
Mother comes, broken, and weeping. 
Pleading, and yearning and sad; 
Finds a great heart full of pity, 
Finds a sad head bended low. 
Out of that room full of gladness 
With tear bedimmed eyes see her go! 

Happy when others were happy. 
Sorry when others were sad; 
Such was the love of his great true heart, 
Such was the soul that he had! 
8 



JUST BE KIND 

"After all, the one meaning of life is simply to 
be kind." Lincoln. 

Never Seer of any age has told the world 

Truth more tender, more eternal; 

No philosopher of might has ever hurled 

Across the far flung reaches of the years 

Truth more virile, truth more pregnant 

With promise born of the eternal Christ himself; 

Born of suffering, and pain, and tears; 

Promised hope to all the world of human kind ; — 

Easing of the wearing world old fears; 

And yet, 'tis only this, just to be kind, to be kind! 

Universal language, though unspoken, of mankind; 

Understood instinctively by beast as well as man; 

Whether here in halls of learning or in yonder 
slough we find 

Him groveling in the worm fed slime, and dirt, 
and mire, 

Seeing him, nor blue spread stretch above, nor God- 
like heart of love; 

Understood by worshipper of wind, or earth, or 
fire; 

Wise or foolish, high or lowly; all will understand; 

All the world of throbbing, breathing, living kind! 

If you'll do only this: just to be kind, to be kind! 



WHERE THERE GREW A THISTLE 

"I have not done much, but this I have done — 
wherever I have found a thistle growing I have 
tried to pluck it up, and in its place I have planted 
a flower." — Lincoln. 



Ah Lincoln, many a flower of joy and hope 
You planted where the thistles grew 
In weary hearts that beat in bitter pain, 
Nor pity, love, nor comfort knew; 
Until YOU came that way with open hand 
And scattered seeds of flowers in the sand. 

Full many a little child with tear stained face 
Could point with pride and joy along the way 
Where erst while was a stony, stumbling place 
That you smoothed o'er one stormy, dismal day. 
And earthed the seed of wondrous, Fairy Flowers, 
Which eased the tears and gilded sweet, the hours. 

And many, many soldiers boys in stress and pain, 
Aweep for lack of love, and tender care. 
Have learned to breath with reverence your name, 
Because, along their thorny pathways there 
You planted seeds of love that bloomed, to be 
Flowers of peace, and rest, and sweet beauty. 

And, Mothers too, will long remember you. 
Because, along their weary road of life 
Where cruel thorns, and thistles grew. 
You rendered sweeter far the bitter strife 
Of war, and death, by sowing seeds, and dropping 

tears 
That flowers of pity still might bloom along those 

years. 

Teach us, Oh kindly man, of Kingly heart 
To stiflSe all the thistles and the thorns ; 
To play, with Thine own sweetness, well our part 
In life's sad drama, though our way be drear 
As yours was once ; and help us keep aback the tears 
By planting seeds of flowers ever3rsvhere we go; 
As you, by leaving flowers of love, where thistles 
grow! 



lO 



"ACQUAINTED WITH GRIEF" 

"I have been too familiar with disappointments to 
be very much chagrined with defeat". Spoken by 
Lincoln in his first public address at Salem, March 
9th, 1832. 

A little lad he was when first he knew the pain of 

grief ; 
'Mother's little Soldier, comrade, Mother's little 

Man' 
She called him, sounding deep, as only Mothers can 
His childish heart, unearthing qualities that seemed 

beyond belief. 
Warm, and sweet was that dear comradship, as 

Summer sun 
Through nine ambitious, reaching years of tender, 

sweet boyhood — 
When suddenly, a morning, bleak and drear, broke 

o'er his little world 
And God had taken from his life that understanding 

one. 

Ah yes, he knew what disappointment meant; 
His was a life with deepest sorrow blent! 

In early manhood's breaking dawn he felt again that 
thrust of pain. 

Comrade was she, dear and tender flower of woman- 
hood. 

Who came, and soothed, and loved, and ever un- 
derstood. 

His hopes had world wide grown since down his 
rugged path she came! 

Tender, deep, was that dear comradeship, as brood- 
ing stream 

When Summer winds of Southland play along its 
flowered way; 



II 



Then suddenly, black clouds drove back the glory 
of that day, 

And she was gone from him ; — alone he stood, shat- 
tered his dream. 

Ah yes, he knew what disappointment meant; 
His was a life with deepest sorrow blent! 

A little lad with happy face to cheer a lonely Fath- 
er heart 

Came to him in the wearied years of that long, cruel, 
bitter strife 

Of war, and pain, when sorrow brooded o'er his 
saddened life. 

Alone he stood from all the world, save that one lit- 
tle soul, apart. 

Close, and sad was that dear comradeship, as Au- 
tumn days 

Are dear to hearts that weep, and souls that live in 
loneliness. 

But suddenly his great heart fills with saddened pain 
and stress — 

The little lad is gone ; — Ah lonely man, who walks 
in lonely ways! 

Ah yes, he knew what disappointment meant; 
His was a life with deepest sorrow blent! 



12 



THE HUMBLE WALK OF LIFE 

"I was born, and have ever remained, in the most 
humble walks of life". Spoken by Lincoln in his 
first address to the people of Sangamon County, 
Salem, 111., on the 9th of March, 1832. His first 
public address. 

Yes, Lincoln, you have walked the humble walks of 

life; 
You have known the way of pain, and bitter strife; 
Sprang you from dear Mother Earth, her noble 

son, 
And Man of Might, with soul triumphant, stalwart 

one! 

Yes, Lincoln, common ways have known your 

mighty tread; 
Humble paths o'er which your strident foot-falls 

led; 
But you have given glory to the poor man's weary 

load. 
The pack the humble man bears down life's com- 

mon road! 

The common man is King of All men living now, 
since 

You have trod the common path with princely rev- 
erence. 

And we have learned to love the common man the 
more 

Because you, Lincoln, trod that Holy way before! 



13 



THAT WONDROUS NAME! 

"I cannot but know what you all know, that 
without a name, perhaps without a reason why I 
should have a name, there has fallen upon me a 
task such as did not even rest upon the Father of 
his country." From an address to the legislature of 
Ohio, Feb. 13th, 1861. 

"Lincoln", name that men now speak with reverent 

hearts, 
'Tis true, was once unknown, unsought, unfamed 
Of men, unspoken in the far spread, untilled parts 
Of his own land, a great eternal soul unnamed 
By human ken, yet christened well by an eternal 

hand 
To raise a sunken race, and save his native land ! 

"Lincoln", name that all the world has come to 

know; 
Name that all men speak with piteous, tender touch, 
Because he knew the way of thorny paths to go; 
Because, like million weary souls, he suffered much ! 
Because, like Christ of Calvary, he loved all those 
Who suffered pain, as one, who, suffering knows! 

"Lincoln", name that shall be whispered down 
The murmuring corridors of changing years. 
And centuries that, whirling, come and go; 
Name that gathers 'round it hallowed mist of tears ; 
Name that centuries will cut like glacial grooves 
Deep in the breast of time, the coming worlds to 
move! 



14 



"WITH HIM I CANNOT FAIL" 

"Without the assistance of that Divine Being I 
cannot succeed. With that assistance I cannot fail. 
Trusting in him who can go with me, and remain 
with you, and be everywhere for good, let us con- 
fidently hope that all will yet be well." Lincoln. 

What Faith, what Trust, what Hope was yours 

Ah, Man of Might, of stalwart strength ! 

Your faith unhemmed by swinging doors 

Of minster, church, or stately length 

Of steeple spire; by creed, or race; 

But in the Eternal's ever kindly grace 

You trusted, knowing that you could not fail! 

What confidence that held you strong 
All through the blackened, dreary night 
Of war, so gruelling, so bitter, and so long? 
What deeper insight made you know the right 
When all your world was saying you were wrong. 
And cruel cries of hate came from the countless 

throng ? 
Ah, it was because you trusted God, and knew you 

could not fail! 

What love was it that kept you kindly sweet 
When your own life was touched with sorrow's 

sear? 
And all the world that seemed to you most meet 
Grew black ; when she that seemed to you most dear 
Was gone, and sorrow deeply hovered over you? 
How was it that you held you nobly true? 
Ah, it was because you trusted, knowing that HE 

would not fail! 



15 



THE PURE THREAD 

Into the strong man's life there came 
At this time, one whose softening touch 
Upon his rugged life had much 
To do with all his tender fame. 

Ann Rutledge was the daughter of 
An old romantic southern home 
Where often in the southern gloam 
She dreamed her dream of future love. 

When Lincoln met her first she seemed 
A simple Rose touched, timid maid, 
A Fairy of the dale and glade, 
Unspoiled, unblighted as she dreamed. 

All who knew her loved her, when 
They saw the beauty of her soul. 
And e'en to-day great tear drops roll 
From eyes of those who knew her then. 

Strong Lincoln learned to love her with 
Such love as lasts beyond the years; 
A love untouched of hurt or fears; 
A love but such as great souls give! 

Into life's motely fabric he 
Was weaving one pure thread of love 
To bind his heart to God above, 
And link his soul eternally! 



s6 



THAT SACRED HOUR 

("Lincoln was sent for and spent one hour with 
Ann Rutledge before she died.") Ida M. Tarbell. 

For you and me to pry into that chamber there, 

Where she was lying, pale and weak, with golden 
hair 

About her face, and eyes of love once more full 
bright 

When he came in, at last, for all to say 'Good- 
Night' ; 

Would be the direst sacrilege, though deep our 
love! 

Just two that scene was for, — and God above ! 

One hour alone with her, one anguished hour he 

spent ; 
No human eye to see his pain, no comfort, save the 

heaven lent 
Its sunshine creeping through the open door to light 

her dying face; 
A symbol of the light that was for her beyond the 

bode of human place. 
No spoken word from that sad hour has yet been 

told mankind; 
But see the piteous man who stumbles out, broken 

groping, blind! 



17 



FLOW GENTLY NOW, SWEET SANGA- 
MON 

(The Sangamon Is the river beside which Lin- 
coln and Ann Rutledge used to wander in their 
love days, and beside which Ann Rutledge is now 
buried.) 

Sweet Sangamon flow gently now, 

For she sleeps here, her whitened brow 

And slender form relaxed in rest. 

Her grave in flowered splendor dressed. 

Flow gently now, it does not seem 

That she is dead, but just adream 

Beside Thy softly flowing stream. 

Flow silently, sweet Sangamon, 
While evening shadows creep along 
The pathways leading to her grave. 
Where gentle breezes waft and wave. 
Flow gently now^ it does not seem 
That she is dead, but just adream 
Beside Thy softly flowing stream. 

Speak softly, O sweet Sangamon, 
Do not disturb that saddened one; 
That 'Man of Sorrows' kneeling there 
Amid the evening's hallowed air. 
Just whisper now; it does not seem 
That she is dead, but just adream 
Beside Thy softly flowing stream. 

Far from this scene flow on, flow on 
To other lands sweet Sangamon, 
But ne'er forget that Thou hast seen 
This grave of love, this spot of green! 
Flow gently then, sweet Sangamon 
To other lands flow on, flow on, 
And tell the world it does not seem 
That she is dead, but just adream 
Beside Thy softly flowing stream. 
i8 



THE SANGAMON'S GLORY 

Ah, Sangamon awind among the little hills, 

Full fed by many bursting brooks, and tumbling 

rills, 
Until Thy widening, wandering bed 
Through broadening, flowered banks of green is led ! 

What beauties here of hill, and wood, and field; 

Of grasses soft, and flowers, many hued, Thy path- 
ways yield! 

What waters clear, and shadowing myriad leaves 

Are fluttering in Thy darkened depth where 
spreading trees 

Bend over Thee to touch Thy breast with finger 
tips of love! 

What massive, fleeting banks of snowy clouds above 

Are mirrored in Thy passive, dreaming, beauteous 
eyes! 

What fire of red, and purpled evening's darkened 

skies 
At times seem resting on Thy Mother breast. 
As day-light sinks to night below the wolding west! 

And yet. Oh Sangamon of beauteous, wondrous 

mem. 
To lingering, loving, memory haunted lovers it 

would seem 
That Thou art glorious, not because of these 
Thy flowers, shadowed leaves, and bending trees; 
Thy banks of green enclosing tender mother brea!st; 
Nor yet because of Thy reflected beauties o' the 

west ; 
But Thou art wondrous, more, O haunted stream 
Because, upon Thy banks THEY dreamed their 

dream 
Of love of home to be, of hope the future held 
When their two lives the coming years would weld 
lo one great heart; and thus, they, wandering, 

talked ^ 

19 



Of love, and home, as down thy winding, flowered 

paths they walked 
At evening time amid the scented days of balmy 

June, 
When love, and flowers were bursting into living 

bloom. 
And birds were mating in the new massed bowers 

of leaves. 
And throbbing songs were bursting from Thy 

spreading trees! 

'Twas on this very spot of green they stood; 
They wandered hand in hand athrough this very 

wood ; 
Aye, over these same hills at sunset time they 

strolled 
And stalwart Lincoln breathed into her heart the 

story old 
Of love, and hope, and home, while blushing wo- 
manhood 
In all its purity, with lowered eyes all meekly stood 
Beside the noble man; Ann Rutledge, daughter of 

a Southern home. 
Woman of tenderness, cheeks of Roses yet unblown ; 
Tears of joy, pulse of stirring dawn; — just here. 
Perhaps upon this very knoll, full many a year 
Ago, this love, that all the world has known 
Was born, amid the subtle charm of evening's shad- 
owed gloam. 

Because of that, O Sangamon, O beauteous stream 
We tread Thy sacred paths with footsteps reverent. 
And glory in Thy many flashing, shimmering 

gleams 
Of light, — but walk with prayer, our heads in love 

full bent. 
Because THEY walked these woodland, cloistered 

halls. 
So shall we walk this day amid Thy myriad memory 

calls! 

20 



AT THE GRAVE OF ANN RUTLEDGE 

(The grave of Ann Rutledge is marked by a 
simple stone, with name, and date of birth and 
death carved on it.) 

"Ann Rutledge", just a simple stone. 
Half buried in the slender grass. 
That name alone 
Carved with unskilled hand 
To mark the resting place 
Of that fair Southland Flower, 
Which bloomed in tender grace 
Along a strong man's sunless bower, 
To touch to sweetness for awhile 
A sad man's rugged life 
With summer sun, and smile; 
And then to die at Autumn time. 
And leave his world all desolate 
With hopelessness, and sad repine, 
As fades the flower on the hill, 
Or dies the Warbler's summer trill. 

"Ann Rutledge", just a simple stone 

That rests beneath a clump of trees; 

From other graves apart, alone; 

Where scented drifts of summer breeze 

Come softly stirring o' the leaves 

Of grass, all whispering her 

Of love now known in every wold, 

With all its pity, tenderness, and blur 

Of mist that falls the while 

Where'er that tear touched, tender tale is told. 



21 



"Ann Rutledge", — no monument to mark 
Your last earth resting place; 
No granite shaft towers to the sky 
In tall majestic grace — , 
But e'er for you, the breezes sigh 
And breathe above a simple stone. 
More fitting that for your sweet life! 
Itself untouched of bitter strife ; 
Of envy's forward clutch for fame 
To crown a king and win him fame; 
No Cleopatra's wiles were yours; 
No Helen's Troy e'er op'ed its doors 
That you might enter robed in gold ; 
No Guinevere a king's life sold ; 
For you were but a tender child of 
Goodness, and of light. 
Foreordained to gleam the night 
Of greater king than story holds. 
Or history's great page unfolds; 
Your king, a king of greater worth 
Than all the rulers of the earth! 

"Ann Rutledge", and no other mark 
To tell the world your tender fame. 
Above your rest there sings a Lark; 
About your life, about your name 
The glory of unopened flowers 
Lingers in the twilight hours, 
Suggesting in their sweet perfume 
The morning promise of the noon; 
A promise that the wonder Will 
Of God hushed, e'er it found fulfill. 
And yet the sweetness of your life 
We see in that great saddened man, 
For your dear touch to him was more 
Than ever king has felt before! 
Ah, sad thought: You ne'er saw him, when 
He wore his country's diadem 
Of Love, and Faith, and Willing Trust 
For like his own great life's dear hope, 
Your's ended e'er the bud was broke! 
22 



"I CANNOT FORGET" 

(From a scene in Lincoln's life as taken from Ida 
M. Tarbell's History of Lincoln.) 

How many tired, broken hearts have sent that bitter 

cry 
Throbbing out into the night against a blackened 

sky! 
How many hearts have suffered too, that could not 

e'er forget! 
How many souls though long apart are longing, 

longing yet! 
How many eyes have peered out through the rain 

and snow at night 
With vision dimned and dying soul all seared with 

bitter blight! 
How many arms have upward reached as though 

the loved one there 
Would come with gentle breath at night from out 

the evening air! 
How many eyes have filled with tears, adream 

athrough the drifting years; 
How many, many lips have cried ; how many, many 

souls have died, 
Because, brave souls, their tender hearts could not 

forget ! 



23 



BESIDE WHITE COTS 

See that rugged man there, kneeling 
Down beside that wounded boy, 
With a word of subtle healing. 
Tender word of love and joy! 
Who is that kingly one? 
'Tis the great, and kind Lincoln! 

Reaching out his big rough hands 
Touching gently, fevered brow; 
(All the sorrow in the land 
Makes his great soul tender now!) 
Who is that kindly one? 
'Tis the tender man, Lincoln! 

Smoothing back the ruffled hair, 
Holding close the pain clenched palms. 
Breathing words of holy prayer. 
Sweetly reading comfort psalms. 
Who is that kindly one? 
'Tis the reverent Lincoln! 

See him bending low his head 
Where that soldier breathes his last. 
Kneeling down beside the bed. 
Tears are falling free and fast. 
Who is that kindly one? 
'Tis the saddened man, Lincoln! 



24 



LINCOLN'S GETHSEMANE 

The night was gloom, the city streets were bare and 

lone. 
The war was cruel with blood of slain, and many a 

home 
Was dark that night for lack of music, lack of song, 
And no laugh rang out through the darkened gloam. 
As that tall, sad faced person passed the streets 

along. 

A row of empty houses, cheerless, with unlighted 
fires 

He passes as he walks along with deep, untold de- 
sires 

To end the war; but even then his human heart 
can hear the call 

Of God to fight the battle through though deep the 
pall. 

Then out along the fields amid the lowering night 
he roams 

Amid the hurt of soul, the slain of life, the deepen- 
ing gloams! 

And kneeling there beside a rugged storm flung 
rock 

Which many centuries had scorned the sweeping 
shock ; 

He lifted up his weary soul, helpless, to God above; 

A soul all torn with doubt, and hurt, and Univer- 
sal Love; 

And cried: "Oh what am I, my God that Thou 
should'st bid me go 

To further ends! Oh, what am I, that Thou 
should'st trust me so?" 



25 



THE FACE OF LINCOLN 

That massive head is raised unto the sky ; 

A pleading look, a piteous, broken cry 

Goes up to God ; a cry of soul torn pain 

For all the weary, broken hearted, and the slain. 

And now the head is bowed in great humility 
While deepening lines of care, and world pity 
Furrow heavy lines in that brave, manly brow. 
Enough, sad heart. Thy soul to crush. Thy head 
to bow! 

Cheeks hollow, sunken with the awful strain 
Of midnight vigils filled with anxious pain ; 
Lips all aquiver, ever nigh to sympathetic tears 
Through all those weary, gloomy, saddened years. 

Eyes, Ah, 'tis here the hurt, within their depths, 

shows most! 
For here the bitter sadness of a sorrowing host 
Of suffering, yearning, crying, hungering souls. 
That, deep within that mighty heart of love he 

holds, 
Broods in those haunted, sleepless, wondering eyes, 
Like Autumn's sorrow for the dying leaves, which 

gloams the skies; 
Where all the sadness of a Nation's myriad pain, 
And all the travail of a thousand mothers' slain 
Is buried deep within their piteous, brooding sweep ! 
Ah, eyes that yearn, and eyes that turn to God, and 

eyes that weep! 



26 



'FATHER ABRAHAM" THEY CALLED 
HIM 

"Father Abraham" they called him, 
Spake it softly, spake it low, 
With a touch of sacred feeling — 
All his soldiers spake it so. 

When the battle's smoke was rolling. 
When the maimed were lying low, 
"Father Abraham" they spake it, — 
Spake it tenderly, and low. 

'Round the Camp Fires in the even, 
When his "Boys" all tenderly 
Sang their songs of home, and mother; 
With the tear drops falling free. 
Always sang they of another, 
"Father Abraham", 'twas he! 

"Father Abraham", from white cots 

Spoken softly, with a gleam 

Of hope, and joy, and tender thoughts, 

From the dying breasts of men that seemed 

Nearer heaven than the earth; 

Place of pain where seemed a dirth 

Of tender hands, and tears, and words to pray, 

'Till "Father Abraham" passed that way. 



37 



THE PATH HE TROD— THE PATH OF 
THE HILL 

Two pathways wind the varied tread of life 
That men may take: adown the meadowed stream 
Beside the murmuring river where the strife 
Of battle sounds but dim, like echoing dream 
That is so far away it seems a fairy tale, 
And not a bloody truth that turns men pale! 
Adown this flowered way are softened beds of 

green 
Where one may storied tales and poems glean. 

The other pathway leads across a barren hill 
All seared with many a pain and human ill ; 
Where grass is burned to black beneath the manly 

tread 
Of many thousand souls along that pathway dead! 
The petals of the flowers are crisp and dried; 
Beneath the burdened pain of war the fair have 

died! 
A weary traveler climbs with faltering pain 
That path of gloom where loyal hearts are slain! 

Two man have trod this barren, pain swept hill 
In sacrifice for sin and human ill. 
Fire blanched the winding way that path must lead ; 
The hearts of men who go its weary way must 

bleed ! 
Because, where ends the path, far trod, and high 
A cross stands bare, outlined against the lonely sky! 



28 



HIS ENTRANCE TO FORD'S THEATRE 

Ford's Theatre in Washington this night 
Is filled with people e'er the shadow light 
Of evening has died from out the west. 
And many a laugh, and many a jest 
Rings out from many happy hearts, 
From stately hall, from street, and marts. 

When Lincoln enters that great hall 
With many a shout and many a call 
Of joy and pride, and love, they all arise 
And ringing cheers reach to the skies! 
Then tender hearted Lincoln stands 
And reaches out his great rough hands — 
In blessing, waves them o'er their heads, 
While through his mind with muffled treads 
His ''Boys" in blue pass by, and tears 
Of sorrow trickle down each cheek. 
He waves his hand — he cannot speak ! 

Ah, Lincoln, you have suffered much! 
But now it seems, within your touch 
Is all that you have hungered for 
Through all the sad, and bitter war; 
The hope of all your life it seems; 
The fulfillment of all your dreams; — 
But tragedy of tragedies! 
Within the moment of your peace 
You are within the traitor's touch! 
Ah, Lincoln, you have suffered much! 



29 



THE STORM AND THE CALM 

For a moment the silence of death reigns in that 
building, vast; 

But as the truth is realized, a cry of vengeance rends 
the skies. 

And never w^as a scene more aw^ful than that thund- 
ering blast 

Of passionate and shrieking hate, and w^ilder, cruel 
cries 

Of "Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!" throbbing from 
the many breasts; 

A storm of hate, and vengeance, throbbing, lung- 
ing, plunging to its crest ! 

What a contrast wnth that how^ling storm w^ithout, 

is there 
Within the chamber where the martyred Lincoln 

lies, and where 
A solemn hush has fallen o'er the great men gath- 
ered in the room 
Where breathes the pale, unconscious form athrough 

the long night's silent gloom. 
At last the day light breaks above the country's 

saddened east 
While calmness sweet, spreads o'er his pale and 

wrinkled face, in peace 
Eternal, and the Modern Man of Sorrows passes 

to his rest. 



30 



"NOW HE BELONGS TO THE AGES" 

(Spoken by Secretary Stanton two minutes af- 
ter Lincoln had passed away.) 

Silence falls, unbroken save by sobs of strong men 

In that room, where Lincoln, at the morning hour's 
chime 

Passes out into the unknown from the world of hu- 
man ken. 

Gone his body and his life work from the world 
inclosed by time; 

But in the silence that was falling after breath of 
broken prayer. 

Words eternal broke the quiet like a bell toll on the 
air; 

Never in the world's wide story, wiser spoke nor 
Prophet, spoke nor Sages, 

Than these words that broke the silence: *'He be- 
longs now, to the Ages!" 

"To the Ages!" well you spoke it, Stanton of the 

massive mind ! 
He belongs, the years have shown it, to the world 

of human kind! 
Heard his story, where'er hearts throb o'er the 

world's far spreading way; 
Heard his story, children listen at the closing of the 

day; 
Heard his story, lovers speak it, in their hushed and 

saddened tones 
As they wander in the twilight dreaming of their 

coming homes ; 
Heard his story, statesmen tell it, with a thrill of 

pride and truth; 



31 



Heard his story, old men speak it to the country's 

growing youth. 
And the years have shown the Prophets, and the 

years have shown the Sages ; 
Writ in fire these words of wisdom,— "He belongs 

now, to the Ages!" 



32 



XI 03 



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